Claudius
by Wylrin
Summary: A recruit legionary earns his name on the battlefield, but not in the way he had hoped.


The first thing he registered was pain. That was something he was used to, so he thought little of it. No, it was the darkness that disconcerted him. An inky black pervaded his vision, not a source of light in sight, and he did not like it. Struggling to lift his eyelids, only half-realizing they were closed, he was met with failure in this simple objective. The blackness somehow grew darker, and he was lost to the world of the conscious.

It seemed like not a moment later he was stirring again, though Mars only knows how long it had actually been. All concept of time and existence was lost on him. He dared not ponder it, for his head was far too clouded. He merely knew that he had to open his eyes, though he did not particularly understand why. It was an urgent need. That was all he understood. So his eyelids fluttered open, only to slip closed again after a moment, only partly due to the blaring sun in his eyes.

Heat was the next thing he registered. The sand beneath him burned and the sun was pelting down on him mercilessly. His fingertips dug underneath the surface of the sand where they lay, desperate to feel the cool feeling of the sand untouched by the sun's rays. His fingertips found this coolness, but the rest of his body burned, like he was a deathclaw egg quickly cooking under the sun's heat.

Pain registered to him yet again. It filled his entire body yet focused in his leg and his head, the latter of which pounded in rhythm with his heartbeat. Struggling to open his eyes yet again, he found he could not, but he managed to move an arm to shield his face from the sun. Perspiration trickled down his brow, which might have seeped into his eyes should they have been open. They were most certainly not, however, so such a thing was not his concern.

What _ _was__ his concern was getting his eyes open. Surely it was time to wake up. His Decanus would whip him if he was caught sleeping in. That thought got him to open his eyes, not because of the promise of pain, but at the thought of disappointing his superiors. When he opened his eyes, he saw nothing but his forearm which shielded him from the sun. He could still see its glare around his arm, however. It had to have been midday. His Decanus would have him beaten if he didn't get up soon. Why hadn't he beaten him already?

Shifting with a groan, he managed to roll on his side, his back turned to the blaring sun. What he saw when he did so made his blood run cold. His Decanus was lying not meters away from where he lay, the feathers of his helmet in disarray and his arms splayed out in a vulnerable position. The sight immediately made him jolt into awareness. Something was wrong.

Somehow managing to crawl to his Decanus, who was lying face down in the dirt, he turned him on his shoulder until his superior was lying on his back. His head lolled to one side lifelessly. Though he could not see them due to his eyewear, he knew at that moment that dead eyes were staring back at him. Still, possibly in denial, he checked for his pulse. Nothing. He quivered slightly. What had managed to make his Decanus fall? Upon looking up and seeing the body not meters away from them, he started to remember...

\- - -

His Decanus was barking orders at them, which was nothing unusual to the recruit legionaries such as himself. They were in pursuit of a fleeing band of NCR troopers. Cowards were running for the hills instead of putting up a fight. How easy this would be. He was already imagining how they would string these profligates up on a cross, how they would make these so-called men beg for death.

As the degenerates fled into a natural chokepoint of towering cliffs, he was ordered to follow suit. When he finally reached that chokepoint, however...

\- - -

Yes, he remembered now. The profligates had set up mines at the chokepoint. He recalled hearing the beeping before everything went black.

Now here he was, his Decanus dead. Were there any survivors? The dead NCR trooper was a comforting sight, but as he looked down the canyon, he saw the bodies of his fellows, every last one of them. A chill ran up his spine. He needed to report this to Caesar, he needed-

As he tried to get up to do just that, pain erupted in his left leg, forcing him back to the ground. Looking down at his leg, a lesser man might have thrown up his lunch. The legionary was not a lesser man, so while he didn't bring up his lunch, he was still rendered quiet and motionless at what he saw. His leg, the same leg that had come down upon that mine, he remembered, was bent at an unnatural angle. Swallowing the bile that was rising in his throat, he grudgingly knew what needed to be done.

Perhaps it hadn't been the best idea. Snapping his leg back into place had brought forth a scream that could probably be heard for miles. He knew he could no longer stay here, but his leg was going to make travelling anywhere nigh impossible. How would he get back to Cottonwood Cove in this state? What would he tell...?

Oh, Mars. What would he tell his superiors? That his entire contubernium had fallen at the hands of the enemy? That they had failed in their mission in taking out the NCR soldiers? Oh, Mars, that they had failed...

This thought process made him stop in his tracks, not that he had gone very far anyways. How could he face his superiors like this? He couldn't put any of his weight on his left leg. He was practically hopping about on his right. He'd been crippled by the profligates' mine, something he doubted healing powder would fix. His ability to function as a soldier had decreased exponentially. Could he still fight like this...? He tried setting down his injured leg to assume a combative stance, only to recoil in pain. It was no use. He couldn't put any of his weight on his leg, not without the risk of snapping it out of place again.

It occurred to him in that moment that he had been rendered useless in the eyes of the Legion. For how could Caesar take back a mere cripple who could offer him nothing in the way of combat? He would probably be punished for his failure, then crucified for his lack of usefulness. Euthanized, put down like a disobedient dog. The thought filled him with terror unlike any he had ever known before, but also a sadness. Surely he could still serve his faction in some way. Surely...

He wasn't going to Cottonwood Cove.

Instead, he turned in the direction he had come - west.

He really didn't have the slightest idea what he was doing. All he knew was that he couldn't go back. They would lash him to a cross if he did, he was sure of it. Punished for his failure and terminated for his lack of usefulness. Loyalty meant little to Caesar, he knew. He only cared about results. And the results of this mission were... not good.

Struggling forward, practically crawling across the Mojave's sands in his inability to stand on his left leg, he thought of Vulpes Inculta. The man who had broken rank and had nearly been executed for it. The same man who now served as the greatest of Caesar's frumentarii. Perhaps... perhaps he needed only prove his worth. He could still serve Caesar's Legion, even with his leg being in the state it was. Yes, somehow, someway, he would find a way to prove his worth. He could still serve his faction. He need not needlessly die.

As he continued west, eventually coming upon a stick to aid him in his walk, he thought about how it would have been this mission in which he earned his name. Well, he was afraid he had done just that.

He was now Claudius. Crippled.


End file.
